


Golden Age

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Brienne is in line for the throne, Childhood Friends, F/M, Slow Burn, Tudor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-07-27 09:55:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 18,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20044054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: Alternate Universe based on the Tudors.It was when Tywin Lannister served Brienne with a smile, that Brienne knew she should have seen something was amiss.





	1. Chapter 1

Jaime had convinced her to sneak away to the archery courts. He may have been the elder of the two, but from the moment Brienne had laid eyes on him she saw the mischief of one eternally young at heart. Thrown together in lessons and in play, they spent the days tormenting and delighting each other in turn. When Jaime began poking her in the ribs when they should have been studying their High Valyrian, Brienne could tell it was to be one those tormenting days, lest she oblige him and throw down her quill.

Exuberant, guileless youngsters that they were, it was not long before they were caught and dragged before Jaime’s father. The following scolding had been far less severe than they had feared, for Lord Casterly had been greatly distracted. And yet, all it took was a single form of address to send Brienne’s blood running cold.

“Why has it my lord Governor, that yesterday it was Lady Brienne and yet today Lady Tarth?” she near whispered.

Lord Casterly’s gold flecked eyes narrowed at Brienne’s uncharacteristic perceptiveness. He waved for her to sit before him.

“You may leave us Jaime, I have news of great import to tell Lady Brienne regarding her father.”

~Summer~

“We are being summoned to Court.”

The child Marchioness of Tarth’s stomach dropped to her shoes at her Governess’s announcement. The last time she had heard those fateful words, she had been summoned to witness her uncle the king’s marriage to his second wife. The time before that, to witness the trial and execution of his first.

The infamy of Queen Lyanna’s disgrace still set tongues a waggling in every tavern and taproom, the sordid details of her affairs, King Robert’s black wroth at her guilt, and the tantalising question that could only be spoken in a whisper. ‘Was she innocent?’

Brienne had barely known Queen Lyanna, having rarely frequented court before, but even she could not help but be stricken at the sight of the proud Northern Queen be accused of vile and wanton acts before the court. She had walked into the courtroom with her head held high and defended herself with grace and eloquence, but many a courtier said that the verdict had been passed before the court was even in session.

Lyanna had not been popular. She was too caustic, too rough and too Northern. Everyone had a fault to pick with her. Even her Ladies in Waiting resented the ‘dowdy’ Northern fashions inflicted upon them. Her one greatest supporter was her husband, the jovial, big bellied and mercurial tempered King Robert Baratheon. From the beginning of their marriage he had doted upon his beautiful bride, indulging in her every whim and delighting in her spirit.

But then the years began to pass. Lyanna’s beauty faded, Robert’s temper shortened, Lyanna’s wildness grew grating and no heir proved forthcoming. It was common knowledge that Robert no longer prized his wife as he once had, but the court had nevertheless been stunned at her execution. Even Lyanna’s greatest detractors had not expected the queen’s sentence to be carried through. Set aside, certainly. Kept under house arrest in disgrace, of course. But not beheaded. Not the king’s own wife. Not with her beloved and adoring brother, the king in the North and the Riverlands, sharing their border. All that should have protected her from such a fate, birth, rank and an army, had amounted to nothing. It seemed now that the only protection in the king’s court was complete, and indisputable innocence.

No wonder the court was so uneasy.

But the king; for whose benefit the charges had been fabricated, was the most brilliant of liars for he had fooled himself and talked himself into a rage so black that it was a miracle Queen Lyanna had been given the mercy of the axe.

Even Jaime, who never had a word good or bad to say about Queen Lyanna, had ranted at length about the disgusting affair in the safety of their schoolroom. Brienne’s companion had never spared much thought for politics and romance in the year she had known him, always far more focussed on his sport and hunting, but before her he had earnestly confided to her that whenever he got married, he would never treat his wife so ill.

The whole affair had left the entire realm perturbed and sickened, especially with the unseemly haste that King Robert married his next queen. His betrothal to Lady Margaery Tyrell had been announced not a day after Lyanna Stark’s execution, and the wedding a mere eleven days after that.

It was no wonder that King Eddard Stark had declared war on his uncle and former ally. In the year that followed, the whole country had been dragged down brutal and bloody war. Thousands upon thousands of men had marched to the Riverlands, Brienne’s own father only one of them.

And just as he was only one of the men to march North, he was only one never to return.

~

There were times when even Brienne, never the most confident in her mental capabilities, was astounded by her own ignorance. The signs were all present, all pointing towards one terrible truth. And as much as Brienne was tempted to tell herself that she wilfully chose to blind herself to what was coming, her honesty would not allow it. It was pure, utter obliviousness.

The first sign came with Tywin Lannister, Earl of Casterly. Lord Casterly had been appointed Brienne’s Governor on her father’s departure North, and the proud man was greatly insulted. Which stood to reason as it was an insult. His title new, given in lieu of his service in Robert’s Rebellion, Lord Casterly was well aware that half the realm saw him as an upstart and was prickly about his honour. Lord Casterly had spoken out at the haste with which King Robert had wed Margaery Tyrell, putting on a mien of decency and morality that did little to hide his true desires, which was to forestall his rival’s ascension at court. With the queen whispering in Robert’s ear, Robert had left behind one of his most capable Generals and marched North without him, much to the delight of the court, leaving him to care for a twelve-year-old girl of minor importance.

When Lord Casterly tried to protest the appointment, King Robert only cuffed him around the head and let out a string of curses.

“She is my own blood!” he swore. “How can her wellbeing be a trivial concern, Sirrah?”

Brienne may have been King Robert’s own blood, but it was of a disgraced line. Her mother, Lady Jeyne, had been slanted to wed King Jon of the Vale, and finish the work her elder sister, Lady Cassana began when she wed King Rickard, in uniting Westeros. Instead, she tore these plans asunder when she defied her brother’s wishes and wed the good and humble Selwyn, Marquess of Tarth.

His sister’s disgrace had been the first time the extent of King Robert’s fury had shown its hand. Lady Jeyne was summarily disinherited, she and her children stricken from the line of succession, and for a time the lovers had been imprisoned. For a year they lived under the shadow of the axe, until Robert’s fury relented, and they were given leave to return to Tarth. By the time Brienne was born, Robert’s temper had all but abated. And on the event of Lady Tarth’s death King Robert, who was swayed as easily by love and loyalty as by temper and vengeance, took the mourning Lord Tarth into his arms himself, and wept on his shoulder.

Nevertheless, there was no talk of Brienne taking her place in the Line of Succession, something neither she nor her father mourned.

It did stick in Tywin Lannister, Earl of Casterly’s throat though, and his cool courtesy towards Brienne on his arrival made that perfectly clear. He went about his duties proficiently, and the pair were content to keep well away from each other. If Brienne cared little for her Governor, then she did not regret his appointment, because along with him his sister, Lady Genna, became her Governess and his eldest son became her playmate. Their high spirits and quick wit were exactly what was needed for a lonely girl longing for a father soon to be lost to her forever.

And then, on the same day as her summons to court, Tywin bowed deeply before her, kissed her hand and _smiled_.

That Lord Casterly’s smile did not immediately inform Brienne of what was to come, was Brienne’s deepest shame.


	2. Chapter 2

“Straight back, and smile,” Lady Genna ordered, bouncing heavily on the back of her poor mare as the party trotted through King’s Landing. Crowds surged around them, waving and smiling at the gay procession twisting its way down the cobbled roads like a brightly scaled snake.

“I still don’t understand why we must go,” Brienne muttered. “Could we not have told the queen I am still in mourning?” “It has been over a year child,” Genna sighed. “Not even widows mourn that long.” “You certainly didn’t!” Jaime called, barely avoiding the flick of his aunt’s riding crop.

“The king has requested your presence himself, and the queen wrote personally,” Lady Genna continued.

“It will be exciting,” Jaime told Brienne, trying to coax a smile onto her glum face. “There will be tourneys and masques and mummers and feasts, every day for weeks. And no lessons!”

“It is a great victory your uncle the king has won, and the celebrations shall be unlike anything I have ever seen, and I daresay any of us shall see again. You should consider yourself honoured to be present,” Lady Genna put in.

“Even greater than when my uncle became King?” Brienne asked curiously. All her life she had heard of the great victory her uncle had won against the vile Targaryens, taking the crown and destroying the Targaryens. Well, except for Princess Rhaella who been married to the King of Mereen and had a little daughter, but they didn’t count.

“Far greater,” Lady Genna assured her. “The realm was still tying itself back together back then. Thankfully, his Majesty’s conquest of the Riverlands has come at a much smaller price.” “The price was great enough!” Brienne snapped, her pale freckled face turning red and blotchy. 

“I daresay Father would have much preferred a crushing defeat,” Jaime said swiftly, “Rather than have his Grace prove victorious without him. It’s been galling for Father to admit to being dispensable.”

That time, Lady Genna’s crop hit its mark.

#

The court was bursting at the seams, with every noble of the land jostling and scheming for room to stand. And yet each one stood aside as Brienne approached. Sickly smiles were plastered on their faces at the sight of her, and even the busiest courtier paused to bow their head.

“We are to go straight to our chambers and tidy ourselves,” Lord Casterly instructed the entourage. “Genna, see to it that Lady Tarth is prepared to be presented before the court within the hour.” Jaime grimaced sympathetically at his friend as he followed his father and the other Gentlemen to his chambers. He knew fell well how Brienne loathed to exhibit herself, and she knew she was sure to wobble as she curtseyed before the throne.

“This way ladies!” Lady Genna trilled as she swept through the bustling halls with an elegance Brienne could only dream of possessing. Brienne stumbled and tripped behind her, face flaming as the gorgeously attired people of the court showed their deference.

“Why does everyone stare so?” Brienne demanded.

“You are the king’s niece,” Lady Genna said simply. “What other reason do you need?”

The chambers Brienne had been appointed was grander than Brienne felt she had any right to set foot in. Large and spacious, furnished exquisitely with a divine view over the sea. Standing there, dishevelled and stained with dust and sweat, Brienne felt like clump of dirt in a jewellery box. That so much space had been afforded for her and her own seemed incredible, with the Red Keep so crowded.

Genna looked around the chamber with satisfaction. “Even my beloved brother can hardly complain. See that our things are unpacked,” she barked at the maids as they fluttered around the heavy trunks hauled up by sweating pages, “_carefully_. Joy, lay out Lady Tarth’s silver kirtle and yellow gown. And the Reach hood with the seed pearls.”

Genna glided off to her own rooms, her maid in tow, to leave Brienne to tidy herself. Stomach squirming like a nest of rooms, Brienne stripped down to her shift and petticoats and hastily washed her face and hands, grateful for the cool air kissing her hot, flushed skin. Her knotted, straggling hair was unpinned, brushed and plaited neatly beneath a silk coif.

“Your gown, my Lady,” Joy said obsequiously, politely proffering the new gown chosen by Lady Genna.

It was a finer thing than Brienne had ever worn before, the yellow and silver silk shimmering in the sunlight, with seed pearls stitched all over the stomacher. It was one of the many new gowns made in haste for Brienne’s visit to court, made in the newest fashions introduced by Queen Margaery. Brienne scowled at her reflection.

“The neck is far too low,” she insisted.

“This is how all the ladies at court wear it,” Joy explained, placing a thick gold chain and onyx pendant around Brienne’s neck, the metal cold against her bare skin.

“No,” Brienne said suddenly, “I want to wear my sapphires. The ones my father gifted me on his departure.”

“But this necklace was a gift from her Grace,” Joy protested. “And the sapphires would look most ill with your gown.”

The hood placed over Brienne’s hair was new also. Far lighter than the heavy, boxy gable hood, that sat upon Brienne’s head like a slanted roof.

“There, you look very well dear,” Lady Genna pronounced upon re-entering the room in a green velvet gown trimmed in gold and inspecting Brienne from head to toe. “Finish the packing and see to it that everything is in place by our return.”

“Is it time already?” Brienne demanded, frozen in pinching silver slippers.

“No point in dallying, come along now.” Lady Genna briskly took Brienne’s elbow and steered her from the safety of her rooms. Brienne let herself be blindly led as she muttered her courtesies under her breath, over and over lest they slip from her head like water from a sieve.

“Do I curtsey three times before the throne?” Brienne asked desperately. “Or is that just for the king himself, not his regent?”

“Curtsey once on entry, and once more before the queen,” Genna replied as they drew to a halt outside the courtroom. “Now straight back and eyes forward, like a solider.”

The doors swung open and Brienne blinked to see the Throne Room so full. She could not think they were there for her welcome, but all eyes swivelled and fixed upon her and a heavy silence fell.

“Be brave,” Lady Genna whispered, “And whatever you do, do _not_ faint.”


	3. Chapter 3

“The Marchioness of Tarth, escorted by Lady Genna Frey,” the herald boomed, and hands sweating, Brienne sunk to the ground with Genna behind her, their skirts billowing out around them. Counting to five in her head, Brienne rose with barely a wobble and began the torturous walk to the throne.

From the corner of her eye, she spied Jaime with his father, looking very dashing in his red velvet doublet and fine silk breeches. There was a time for a quick, shared smile, before Brienne fixed her eyes before her, remembering too late she should have lowered them demurely.

Instead, she stared at the vision of unparalleled loveliness before her. Queen Margaery’s appointment as the king’s regent had been a contentious one, but in her cloth of gold gown and ermine sleeves, she sat upon the throne as one born to it.

Brienne remembered just in time to curtsey before Lady Genna saw the need to tug her sleeve. Knees bent and sweat trickling down her back, Brienne silently pleaded for the queen to give her leave to rise and put her ordeal to an end.

Beaming upon Brienne as though she was the dearest thing in the world, Queen Margaery reached out and pulled Brienne to her feet, pressing exuberant kisses to her cheek.

“Dear Lady Tarth!” she cried, “You look so well! And Lady Genna, how pleased we are to have you back at our court. I must commend you for looking after our beloved niece so admirably.”

“I am glad to be welcomed at Court, your Grace,” Brienne stammered politely, hoping desperately that she would soon be allowed to step aside. Her salvation was not forthcoming, for Queen Margaery took Brienne’s hand in her own and turned her to face the court.

“Lords, Ladies and gentlemen of the court. For over a year our great realm has suffered beneath the shadow of war and invasion, with not even the greatest among us spared from its deadly grasp,” Queen Margaery boomed, her hand gentle and comforting upon Brienne’s shoulder. Grim murmurs filled the court and Brienne scowled fiercely, refusing to let tears fall at the memory of her father. “Today, we can rejoice, for our kingdom is safe once more and our king is returning home, having brought a great victory and securing the prosperity of this land!” Cheers filled the Throne Room, high and loud enough it seemed to shatter the brilliant stained-glass windows. Brienne only managed a low cry, for she feared to do otherwise would result in her tears bursting forth like a broken dam. 

“However, even with the North quelled and Riverlands conquered, treason still lurks like a viper beneath a flower,” Queen Margaery continued, her demeanour turning astonishingly grave and grounded for one so young and petite. “The Dowager Queen Catelyn has fled North, breaking the terms of the Riverlands’ surrender and spiriting Queen Sansa and Princess Arya along with her.”

The court rumbled at the news, mutters of ‘Tully Bitch’ and ‘Wretched she-wolf’ were spat at the ground. Even Brienne knew as well as any other that the child Queen Sansa, born merely two years before her father’s death in battle, was to be given to King Robert’s care and betrothed to his future son with Queen Margaery. She shuddered to imagine her uncle’s anger at Queen Catelyn’s duplicity.

“In the light of her parents’ treachery, his Grace the king, in all his wisdom, saw fit to strike the Stark line from the Succession, for traitor’s blood must never be allowed to corrupt out land!” Another cheer swept through the hall, darker and bloodier than the one before. Brienne did not even allow herself a small cheer. Instead she searched the crowd for Jaime’s face, whose grim eyes confirmed to Brienne her dawning suspicions.

Queen Margaery raised a lily-white hand, bringing silence with the one simple gesture.

“There is not a soul in this hall who does not know of the brave Lord Selwyn Tarth’s valour in the field, nor is there a soul who should not give thanks for his noble sacrifice. In honour of his courage, and in memory of the king’s dearest departed sister; the Lady Jeyne Tarth, it is the king’s pleasure that Lady Brienne Tarth, the Marchioness of Tarth, being of his blood, take her rightful place in the Line of Succession, behind that of Lord Stannis and Lord Renly and their heirs. This is the king’s wish. God Save the king!” “God Save the king!” the crowd thundered.

Now Brienne understood why Lady Genna had warned her not to faint.

#

“Why was I not informed in advance?” Brienne demanded, her awe of Lord Casterly utterly forgotten in her purple rage. Brienne had escaped from the Throne Room at first chance, seeking refuge with Jaime in the hot, perfumed gardens.

“My suspicions were not confirmed until we arrived at court,” Lord Casterly informed her coldly. “The Council only completed putting the king’s commands in place the day before our arrival.”

“It seemed futile to tell you anything and risk you agitating yourself, especially if it all came to nought,” Lady Genna put in, a tough more kindly.

“Did you know?” Brienne spun on her heels, glaring at Jaime.

“Not until just before we were to go into the hall,” Jaime said quickly, taking his place by her side and scowling at his father. “Father, how could you?”

“I will not be lectured to by children,” Lord Casterly said dismissively. “Lady Genna, it is clear that Lady Tarth and my son are distempered. Escort them to our chambers to calm down, and if they continue acting in such a disrespectful manner, separate them and call the Physician to attend upon them.”

Quiet and mutinous, the children only allowed themselves to be led away at the risk of being torn apart, for the pair had no intention of being separated with so much to discuss. Upon returning to the sitting room and with the doors safely shut, they burst into talk once more.

“Quiet!” Lady Genna thundered. “Brienne, I understand the news came as a shock, but I had not a chance to speak with my brother before we were summoned to find if I should inform you. Jaime, this matter is none of your concern so there is no need for you to disturb yourself. Brienne, child, listen to me.” Lady Genna took hold of Brienne’s shoulder and sighed, giving her a comforting squeeze. “Queen Margaery is young and healthy, and the king has two brothers. Your ascension to the throne is as likely that of an aurochs in brocade.” Brienne took a deep breath and nodded, wiping away the tears stinging her eyes. Seeing her distress lingered still, Jaime reached out and wrapped a firm arm around her, a warm and comforting weight on her shoulders.

“It is merely an honour for your father, an act of extra surety against the Northerners taking the throne,” Lady Genna took a look around the handsomely appointing room and nodded, “and a means of our getting decent chambers on our visit to court, nothing more, nothing less.”

Brienne saw the wisdom in Lady Genna’s words and offered her concerned friend a watery, reassuring smile. Her esteemed Governess was right, an aurochs in brocade was just as likely to take the throne. Which was just as well, for considering the shock at which Brienne received the news, an aurochs was more likely to prove an acute and observant ruler than she. 


	4. Chapter 4

“My father should be with these men,” Brienne murmured, her jaw twitching as she smiled at the procession swelling into the courtyard.

“Mine should too, to hear him talk about it,” Jaime whispered back, coaxing a tiny genuine grin onto Brienne’s face.

With Jaime and the other Lannisters behind her, Brienne was stood beside Queen Margaery, front and centre for the return of the king. Behind her, she could feel the breath of near a thousand courtiers breathing down her neck. The sun was beating down upon her and sweat trickled beneath Brienne’s hood.

The last time Brienne had seen her royal uncle, he had been in the depths if gluttony and indulgence. His eyes were haggard with purple pouches hanging beneath, his skin was puffy and blotchy and to stand beside him was to hear his wheeze at the slightest exertion.

The war seemed to have revitalised King Robert. There was a healthy sparkle to his eyes, his skin was clear and his bulk, though still great, was firmly encased in a brilliant gold suit of armour. A heavy black satin cape was pinned to his shoulders and draped over the hide of his great black warhorse.

Hot on his heels rode his brothers. Renly Baratheon, Duke of the Stormlands also wore a suit of gold, his handsome face beaming out at the crowd as they roared their adulation. His thick black hair was tousled, and his merry blue eyes had the uncanny ability to look into the crowd and leave each member feeling specially singled out.

On King Robert’s other side, Stannis Baratheon, Duke of Dragonstone rode in like a shadow. His armour was black steel, another Baratheon colour and yet Brienne suspected that his House colours could be green and purple and still he would wear black. If any man was born without colour, it was Lord Dragonstone. The only colour upon him was the red and orange burning heart on his coat of arms.

The Lord of Light. Many on Tarth had whispered of the heir’s conversion to the foreign religion, and that in itself was reason enough for the realm to pray Queen Margaery proved fruitful.

The queen glided forward and swept down into a deep curtsey, the green and ivory satin skirts of her gown blossomed around her like the petals of the lily pad. The Court followed suit as the king beamed down at the sight of his bride offering her obeisance, providing his Grace with the perfect view of her pert white breasts.

“Maggie!” he cried, disembarking from his horse with the aid of two grooms. “My beautiful wife!”

He took Queen Margaery’s hands in his own and watching from lowered eyelashes Brienne saw the embrace the giant in gold engulfed his tiny Queen. Queen Margaery’s bearing was regal and composed, but Brienne could just make out how tightly she gripped her husband’s hands, the slight hitch in her breath as though she was fighting to stave off tears, small enough that only King Robert seemed fully capable of appreciating it. Watching the queen linger longer in her husband’s arms than strictly necessary Brienne found herself wondering if the queen loved her husband after all.

The crowd rose as Lord Dragonstone and Lord Stormlands climbed down from their mount’s with far more ease than their brother, and courteously greeted the queen. Lord Dragonstone bowed stiffly, grimacing as though the bend in his neck caused him physical pain, and reluctantly kissed the air above Queen Margaery’s extended hand. Lord Stormlands, exuberant and throwing all the rule of etiquette aside as he rose from his bow and swept the queen from her feet, twirling her through the air and holding her in a manner that made Brienne feel intensely jealous. The crowd cheered as the laughing queen returned to land, swaying charmingly into her husband’s steadying grip.

“Careful with my queen brother,” King Robert warned genially. “Come wife, hold me tight and I will keep you standing.”

“Your always do, your Grace,” Queen Margaery said, peeking up from beneath her long dark lashes. “And look who is here, your own niece.”

Brienne barely had time to comprehend what was going on before she was swallowed whole by King Robert’s arms. His gold armour cut through the fabric of Brienne’s gown and squeezed her ribs tight to the point of being crushed.

“This is never my little niece?” he boomed, hands firmly gripping her shoulders. “Seven Hells you have grown! Look at her Renly,” he commanded, twisting Brienne roughly round to face his brothers, “She has our height, does she not?”

Lord Stormlands gallantly took Brienne’s hand in his own and kissed it, gentle amusement filling his eyes at the blush spreading across Brienne’s cheeks. With King Robert’s great form blocking him from view, she did not see the boyish scowl crossing Jaime’s face.

“Indeed, she does, Robert,” Lord Stormlands agreed. “Although I believe her father’s family can lay some claim to her build also.” He squeezed Brienne’s hand, sending Brienne to dizzying heights of ecstasy.

“True brother, true. She was never going to be short.” King Robert laughed.

“It is not natural for a maiden to be too tall,” Lord Dragonstone growled, his face hard with a curdling disliked. Lord Dragonstone had never forgiven Brienne’s parents for their marriage, and the poisonous look in his eyes as he studied Brienne told her she had inherited her father’s blame along with his height.

“Never mind him, Niece,” Lord Robert assured her, the smile slipping from his face as he regarded his brother. “My brother is just jealous. The whole realm owed your father a great debt for his victory at Maidenpool. Stannis, meanwhile, my steadfast and noble brother, let the queen in the North slip through his fingers.”

“You did not provide me with enough men,” Stannis growled, “As I have told you over and over.”

“I have heard your excuses!” Robert snapped. “How many men do you need to guard a woman, a little girl and an infant?” He released Brienne and snatched up his wife’s hand. “Now the bitch has sent her daughter to the Vale, to be wed to Prince Robin and she is lost to us forever.” Robert stared darkly at his brother, the queen stroking his metal plated arm as though she were soothing a fat bristling cat. Under her gentle fingers his breathing eased, and he addressed the rest of the family. “Come, let us get inside. For the sooner I have changed and rested, the sooner we may feast!”

“And I have arranged such a feast for you, your Grace,” Queen Margaery gushed, “and entertainments aplenty. We shall have a month of merrymaking to celebrate my Lord’s great victory.”

The crowd surged forward, and it was with relief that Brienne felt Jaime catch her hand and pull her over to his aunt and father.

“The King likes you,” Genna told Brienne as they made their way to the castle. “She did well, did she not Tywin?”

Lord Casterly was not attending his sister, his eye fixed on the back of the departing King.

“Lord Dragonstone doesn’t like me,” Brienne told Jaime. “He cannot be happy at the king giving me my place in the Succession.”

“He is never happy,” Jaime said cuttingly. “They say that he only smiled once as a boy, at the sound of a birdsong. Those thin lips stretched, the bird fell dead at his feet!”

Brienne burst into laughter, catching herself and looking fearfully at Lord Casterly. But her Governor offered neither Brienne nor his son any censure, so lost in his thoughts was he.

“It seems Lord Dragonstone  is out of favour,” Lord Casterly mused. “And when others fall in the king’s eyes, others have a chance to rise.”

“What are you thinking of?” Lady Genna asked curiously.

“Lord Stormland’s star is higher than ever, and he is close to the Tyrells. It seems that if one wishes to rise these days, one must make peace with the Roses. Something Lord Dragonstone would do well to learn.” Lord Tywin commanded.

“Lord Stormlands is a very comely man,” Lady Genna put in, understanding passing between herself and her brother as though they were speaking a language unknown to any but themselves.

Brienne looked up at her guardians, the look in their eyes chilling her for reasons she did not yet understand. But she was to recognise that particular look in the eyes of thousands as the years passed.


	5. Chapter 5

_~Four Years Later~_

_~Early Autumn~_

“Lady Tarth, I beg pardon for the disturbance, but there is a petitioner awaiting you in the Great Hall.” Sir Varys Finch bowed deeply before Brienne, his silent approach and soft voice startling Brienne into nearly dropping her bow. Brienne sighed, passing her bow and arrow to Lady Genna and turned to face her Steward, frowning.

Brienne knew not what to make of her steward. He was obsequious enough, and competent in his duties. His advice was clear and insightful and under his control her estates functioned seamlessly. And yet, there was an unnerving quality in his sharp eyes and gentle voice, suggesting untapped depths of intelligence and knowledge that Brienne knew would always remain a mystery to her. Lord Tywin had appointed Sir Varys to her household the year before, when he had returned to court and took Jaime with him.

It was a poor consolation.

“I have let it be known I will hear petitioners in an hour,” Brienne said half-heartedly, already resigning herself to an afternoon without archery. Sir Varys would not have interrupted had he no reason to believe that matter would be of some import to her.

“The poor man insists it is urgent, and he is in such distress I thought you would prefer to deal with the matter forthwith,” Sir Vary explained.

Brienne nodded and began striding across her gardens towards the castle, casting a longing look at the archery butts. The weather was unseasonably fine for early Autumn, and tomorrow Brienne was set to return to King’s Landing for Lord Stormlands wedding to Earl of Casterly’s; or as his he was now to be known, the Duke of the Westerlands’ daughter. It was a great match and the highest of the realm had been summoned to witness the event. This stolen hour of archery was to Brienne’s final reprieve before she was drowned in a sea of courtiers and backstabbing.

“Has he been offered food and drink?” Brienne asked Sir Varys as the man trotted to keep up with Brienne’s long strides.

“He has been offered, but he wishes for nothing more than see to you,” Sir Varys explained.

“He must think well of himself,” Lady Genna said in disapproval, trotting and skipping in an attempt to keep up with the pair. “To expect the Marchioness of Tarth to come scurrying at his beck and call.”

But one glance of the man told Brienne why Sir Varys had come to her. The poor man was near dancing on the spot with agitation. His eyes were red, one purple and puffy. His skin was yellow and waxy and grey hair matted with sweat. He was rambling like a man possessed, spittle flying forth in the face of Brienne’s attendants. Guards were trying to restrain his thrashing arms and force him to calm.

“Enough!” Brienne barked. “Sir, will you not have a seat?”

“My Lady,” the man mumbled, bowing with gratitude. “Thank you for seeing me.”

Brienne lead him to one of the benches lining the hall, gesturing for him to sit. Usually petitioners came to her on bended knee before her dais, but the man’s distress told Brienne that a gentler approach was called for. The man looked as though he had not rested for a fortnight, but he sat as tense on the bench as though blades were like to spring from the wood.

“Have food and wine brought,” Brienne ordered a page. “The rest of you are dismissed. Lady Genna, Sir Varys, you may remain.” She took the man’s filthy hands in her own. “Will you tell me what is amiss while we wait for food?” she asked gently.

The man took a great, rattling gasp of air. “My name is Rodrik Cressen,” he told Brienne, whose eyebrows shot up at the name. For all his looks, this man was no beggar. His name and voice spoke of an educated man. “I hail from Dragonstone, where I serve in Lord Dragonstone’s household. His Lordship and his lady wife have recently suffered from another stillbirth.”

“I am most grieved to hear of it,” Brienne told him, her heart aching for Stannis’s wife Selyse, who had suffered from a multitude of stillborn babies, miscarriages and cradle deaths since her marriage, and had suffered greatly from the ravages of both body and heart.

“Lord Dragonstone, he…he and his wife took the miscarriage ill. They saw it as a sign of displeasure from their God, the Lord of the Light.” Cressen’s eyes overflowed with tears and his cheeks grew damp, the old man weeping at the very words. “For years they have worshipped this God, but now they forbid any other religion in their land. They are tearing down the Septs and casting people of the Gods out into the street, leaving them as beggars.” Brienne heard a sharp intake of breath from Lady Genna, while Sir Varys said nothing, merely watching the scene unfold intently.

“The Duchess has sent her men to seek out any who still worship the Seven, even in their own homes,” Cressen continued, the horrors flowing forth like the tears. “Already many have been arrested. Lord Dragonstone intends to try them upon his return from Lord Stormlands' wedding. Those found guilty will be,” the man swallowed, his voice cracking, “will be burnt as an offering for the Lord of Light.”

“He cannot do that!” Lady Genna spluttered. “He may be a Duke, but he still bends to the king’s law, and all in Westeros are free to worship as they please.”

“That is why before he left, Lord Dragonstone closed the ports,” Cressen explained. “All are forbidden to leave without his permission. No messengers may come or go. It was only luck that brought me safely here, and the intervention of the Gods.”

Stunned, Brienne watched the servants return with platters of food. Squeezing the brave old man’s hand, she stood before him.

“Eat well and then I shall have someone take you to your chambers so you my sleep. Rest assured you will be safe in my castle,” she promised him. “Tomorrow I travel to King’s Landing, and I shall put this wretched business to an end.” Impulsively, she knelt before him and kissed his filthy hands. “The Septs will be rebuilt and there will be nor burnings. You have my word.”


	6. Chapter 6

During the voyage to King’s Landing, Brienne sat pensively on the deck of the ship, watching the waves rise and fall with a crash, the spit from the sea kissing her cheeks. Sir Varys and Lady Genna had both advised Brienne to privately go to her Uncle Stannis and inform him that she was aware of his actions, and discretely give him a chance to take back the orders before going to the king. But the duplicity sat ill with Brienne, and the conflict continued to rage within her, only dying on seeing who had been sent to the harbour to escort her to the Red Keep.

Clad in red and mounted upon a great grey stallion and at the head of ten men in livery, Brienne’s dear friend, the Earl of Casterly, had grown more strapping than ever, his pretty boyishness now grown into handsome ruggedness. And yet there still remained something of that mischievous imp in his eyes. As the boat pulled into harbour and her chests carried aboard, Brienne succumbed to the last remaining vestiges of childish impulsiveness and ran headily along the gangplank, her arms wide open.

“Jaime!” she cried, watching Jaime leap from his saddle with obnoxious grace. His eyes laughing, Jaime opened his own arms so that Brienne may run into them.

“Seven Hells,” he said into her ear, “don’t tell me you’ve grown even taller!”

Forgetting her station, Brienne responded with a bite of her thumb, causing Lady Genna to shriek and tut and Jaime to laugh even more.

“I have much to tell you,” Brienne whispered as she hauled herself onto her horse, “though it will have to wait until we can speak in private.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow and nodded. “I am all anticipation,” he assured her, their horses breaking into a bouncy trot along the cobbles.

“How is your sister?” Brienne enquired. “Is she looking forward to the wedding?”

“Can’t wait,” Jaime said, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “A Royal Duchess, what can be better?”

“You are not pleased for her?” Brienne stated.

Jaime just shrugged. He cast a quick look over his shoulder, then leaned across his saddle. “Cersei isn’t the type for marriage,” he admitted. “My hope is that Renly will leave her to hold court in Storm’s End and stay far from her in the Red Keep.” “She should be honoured to have a husband such as the Duke of the Stormlands”, Brienne said, a touch stiffly.

Jaime cracked up into laughter, shaking his head. “Pardon me, my Ladyship, I had forgotten your little fancy for the good duke.”

“He is my uncle,” Brienne protested, her face glowing red. “Of course, I do not wish to hear ill spoken of him.”

“And I suppose you extend the same courtesy for your dear Uncle Stannis as well?” Jaime asked sceptically.

Brienne lowered her voice. “That is what I must talk to you about,” she murmured. “But not now. Later.” She cast Jaime a tentative look. “Is your brother Tyrion here for the wedding?”

Jaime’s lips thinned and his face paled. “My father and Cersei have felt it best he stayed at Casterly Rock.” he said grudgingly. Brienne had never met Jaime’s younger brother, but she knew of the great love Jaime held for Tyrion and the concern he felt for him.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. Knowing Lord Westerlands Brienne had no doubt the man had few qualms in telling his youngest child exactly why he was being kept from the court.

Jaime shrugged. “It is an insult, but Tyrion has assured me he will be happier left at Casterly without father breathing down his neck and amusing himself, and he doesn’t envy us having to endure Cersei’s wedding. That is more than he can say for you and me.”

Brienne kept grimly silent, well aware she would have more to endure than Lady Cersei’s wedding.

~

“That it outrageous!” Jaime thundered in the privacy of Brienne’s chambers. “Does Lord Dragonstone wish to go down in history as a tyrant?”

“I intend to go the king at once and have this matter put to rest,” Brienne assured him, her own rage having cooled to frozen determination. “I will see to it the duke’s crimes do not go unanswered.”

The door scraped open, causing Brienne and Jaime to jump to their feet. Lord Westerlands and Lady Genna came strolling in, frowning in disapproval.

“My Lady, it is most inappropriate for you to be locked away with a young man in private,” Lady Genna rebuked her.

Brienne flushed, cursing herself for having forgotten she was no longer child and there were things she could not do. Jaime had so long been her childhood friend, it seemed preposterous that there were now limitations on how they may behave around each other.

“My apologies,” she mumbled, looking shamefaced at the floor. 

Jaime rolled his eyes. “You lecture the marchioness on inappropriate behaviour and yet do not think it unseemly to barge into her chambers?”

“If you intend to stay only to insult and aunt, then we can do without your presence,” Lord Westerlands informed Jaime.

Anger rippled through Brienne, irate at having Jaime dismissed from her own chambers, even by a Duke. “To what do I owe the honour of your presence, Duke?” she asked quickly.

“Lady Genna informed me of your predicament,” Lord Westerlands told her as Genna settled comfortably in her favourite chair. “May I ask how you intend to resolve the matter?”

“The foolish girl wishes to go straight to the king!” Lady Genna trilled.

“What is so foolish about that?” Jaime demanded hotly.

“The duke is the king’s heir, and the king’s health is not what it was. It would be the height of idiocy to make an enemy of the duke.” Lady Genna shot Brienne a stern look. “You are already inviting his censure by involving yourself in these matters, but at least through attempting to reason with Dragonstone first, you avoid shaming him before the realm. Whereas if you were to go the king and legal action was taken-“ “Then justice will be done,” Brienne interrupted, fighting to straighten her back and look her Guardians in the eye.

“Then his loathing for you will be insatiable,” Lady Genna corrected. “Perhaps if you were to present your evidence anonymously, or request the king kept your name out of things-”

“No. My uncle has the right to face his accuser.”

“I think Lady Tarth has the best of it,” Lord Westerlands said, causing all eyes to swivel towards him. Neither Brienne nor Jaime had considered Lord Westerlands preferring the honourable method above the underhand, self-seeking one.

“Tywin-” Lady Genna began.

“If Lord Dragonstone does not face justice for what he has done, then we are merely delaying the inevitable.” Lord Westerlands said succinctly. “The king must be forewarned of _exactly_ what his heir is.”


	7. Chapter 7

“Well then Niece, to what do I owe this pleasure?” his Grace asked as he gnawed on a chicken leg, grease dribbling into his knotted, wiry beard.

The king was lolling comfortably in his seat, at one with the plush velvet cushions stuffed around him, his stomach and limbs fat and soft. He was dressed in nought but a linen nightgown, with a yellow and black satin robe thrown across. Beside him, pouring wine into his goblet, Queen Margaery was simply pretty in a pale green gown, her chestnut curls free from her hood and a simple gold chain around her neck. Brienne was grateful she had dressed modestly, with only the sapphires passed down from her father about her neck, a gift from King Robert himself to her mother on the occasion of their reconciliation.

Despite the familial intimacy of the scene and the welcoming smile from her uncle, Brienne kept her knees bent and eyes lowered.

“Your Grace, I have a matter of some delicacy I must discuss with you,” she said, straining to keep her voice even.

Robert huffed and forced himself to his feet, gabbing Brienne by the elbow and rising her up.

“Come now Niece, no formality.” He led her over to his seat and had Brienne stand beside him, his hand lingering on her waist. Up close, Brienne could smell the tang of his sweat and hear his short, rasping breaths. “Now, what is this matter of delicacy?”

“I warrant she is in love!” Queen Margaery smiled, locking her fingers through Robert’s hand. “Look at how nervous she is, your Grace.”

“Well, is it so Niece. Has some rogue stolen your heart?” Robert inquired jovially. “Who is he? Seven Hells, tell me it isn’t Casterly. Is every member of my family to marry Lannisters?”

“I’m afraid not Sire.” Brienne blushed. “Nothing so happy. It is about his Grace, the Duke of Stormlands.”

Robert’s face darkened. “Indeed?” he asked, fingers scrambling for a platter of sweetmeats which Queen Margaery wordlessly passed towards him. “What has my brother done now?”

Swallowing, Brienne produced Cressen’s testimony. “Before I left for King’s Landing, a gentleman came to me Dragonstone in considerable distress.” With shaking hands, she presented the crumpled, tear stained parchment.

Robert’s eyes squinted as he tried to make out the words beneath the dried ink runs. His blotchy red skin turned puce and the paper crinkled beneath as his knuckles turned white. Gripping the letter in one fist, he used his free hand to grab the arm of his chair and propel himself unsteadily to his feet. He stormed to the door and wrenched it open, bellowing down the hallway.

“Have my brother brought to the Throne Room!”

~

On the morn of her wedding day, Lady Cersei Lannister looked like nothing more than a Sun Goddess. She stood on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, the sunlight setting her hair and cloth of gold gown alight. Her kirtle was crimson velvet, with silver lattice embroidery. Her bell sleeves billowed out beside her like angel wings, the ivory over-sleeves sparkling with gold embroidery. Her yellow hair was unbound, as befitted a bride, and crowned with flowers.

Brienne had to squint as the doors were opened and the bride revealed, for she was among many who were dazzled by the sight. Lady Cersei descended down the step, followed by a bevy of bridesmaids bearing her train, all dressed in gowns of silver tissue.

“She looks beautiful,” Brienne whispered to Jaime, who stood grim faced beside her in a cloth of gold doublet.

“She does,” Jaime agreed grudgingly, conjuring up a smile for his sister as she glided down the aisle on their father’s arm.

Brienne’s eyes flickered pensively towards her waxen faced friend. Jaime’s reluctance over the match stemmed from more than brotherly protectiveness. He kept staring at his father, whose smile was disconcerting for all who knew him to the joyless creature he was. But Lord Westerlands should look proud, for his daughter was marrying a Royal Duke and the second in line to the throne. The Duchess Selyse had yet to prove fruitful, the Lady Cersei could very well expect to one day take Queen Margaery’s place.

The streets of King’s Landing were lined with well-wishers come to see the Royal couple, and the Sept was heaving with the highest and most noble of the land.

Except for two. The bridegroom was bereft of both his brothers for his Grace had suffered from a fit of apoplexy and was resting in bed, and Lord Dragonstone had sailed from King’s Landing just days before, relieved of his own men at arms and instead escorted by that of the Lannisters and Tyrells. 

Brienne had been present when King Robert had thundered his orders for her Uncle Stannis’s dismissal. Indeed, the entire court was present, and many considered it a finer spectacle than Lord Stormlands’ wedding to Lady Cersei, and an even greater cause for celebration, for Stannis was not well liked.

In turn, Brienne’s popularity soared. A near stranger to the court since childhood and having grown into an awkward and unattractive young woman, she was vaguely regarded as something of an embarrassment to the Royal family. Yet after she was called upon to recall her tale and the events of her meeting with Cressen, she had been hailed as a heroine and even proclaimed ‘Defender of the Faith’ by the High Septon himself.

This acclaim sat unwell with Brienne, but the love of her people could very well prove her safeguard once Stannis took to the throne, for he bore her no love. When he looked upon her in the Throne Room on the day of his reckoning, Brienne felt as though she had been plunged into the Shivering Sea. Whereas Robert had raged red and purple and black, Stannis’s face had had shadowed over into a sickly grey.

The wedding ceremony was followed by hours of feasting and entertainments within the Great Hall, for which his Grace had managed to bestir himself. He sat, hot in his doublet of black velvet and gold satin, constantly bellowing at his page for his goblet to be filled. Queen Margaery sat beside him in ivory damask and emeralds, feeding him morsels from her own hand. Brienne stared at his flushed skin and wobbling jowls and turned to Jaime.

“Why did your father lend his own men to carry out the king’s orders?” she whispered beneath the roaring din of music and laughter. “Lady Genna said so herself that it is ill-advised to make an enemy of my uncle.”

Jaime shot Brienne an enigmatic look. “You don’t want to question my father’s actions too deeply,” he murmured, taking a slight sip of watered-down wine. “You won’t like what you find.”


	8. Chapter 8

_~Six Months later~_

_~Late Winter~_

“If I discover you are lying to me, I shall take more from you than your fingers.”

Sir Davos knelt before his lord; no, his king, and looked him square in the eye.

“I swear it on my soul, my remaining limbs, and any other parts of me you could think to grab a hold of and slice through,” he said frankly. “King Robert is dead.”

Stannis stared down at the knight. He knew the man would not lie to him. He had not done so once since his knighthood in his brother’s rebellion, even when he spoke out against the dissolution of the Septries and near burnt for it. But how could Robert be dead? What’s more, how could Robert be dead, and Stannis not informed?

“And he has been so for a week?” Stannis repeated.

“I have said,” Sir Davos assured him.

“And yet this letter tells me he lives still and desires my presence at court.” Stannis clenched the cursed parchment in his long fingers. “They mean to entrap me,” Stannis murmured. “Renly and the Lannisters and the Tyrells. They would see me displaced.” He stood and paced the length of the chamber, thrusting open the door and glaring down at the layabout page lolling by the wall.

“Find the duchess,” he ordered. “I would see her forthwith!” HE turned back to Sir Davos, a vein bulging in his eye forehead. “The Florents will stand by me,” he told Davos. “Selyse’s kin will see her crowned and embrace our religion.”

“The Florents will of great use, but even combined with the Dragonstone lords we will scarce be enough to withstand the strength of the Reach, the Stormlands and the Westerlands,” Davos pointed out futilely. Any other man might have seen the odds, snatched his wife and all the gold he could carry, and flee. 

But there were notions even honest Sir Davos knew better to voice.

“We will not stand alone.” Stannis sat down and seized a quill, browns furrowed as he looked over his parchment. “While I gather forces here, you shall travel North.”

“North, milord?” Davos repeated.

“Your Grace,” Stannis gritted out, scratching out spidery words upon the parchment. “If I do not intend to allow the highest lords in this kingdom and their armies to forget my birth right, I certainly shall not allow it of a Baronet.”

“My apologies, your Grace,” Davos corrected. “Why would you have me journey North?”

“To seek an audience with Catelyn Stark.” Stannis laid down his quill and pushed the parchment towards Davos. “And make an offer in regards to her daughter. For I am not the only monarch who has been spurned their birth right and struck from the succession.”

Despite the unspoken dismissal, Davos lingered, ignoring the parchment Stannis had brandished before him.

“Is there anything else?” Stannis demanded.

“Just one thing your Grace.” Davos bowed. “My condolences on your brother’s death.”

#

~Late Spring~

In the months that followed King Robert’s death, Tarth became a haven for more than just an unforgivably ugly girl hiding from Court. The small island was near collapsing beneath the weight of all the refugees flocking from the war-torn mainland. The months had been merciless, with war raging in the West and storm ravaged seas from the East forcing Tarth to endure the harsh months without trade to see it through. And yet despite the struggles faced by her people, a selfish compartment within Brienne’s heart relished the challenge of seeing her land safely through its troubles, anything to keep her mind from the blood being shed between her kin and friends.

Instead of what King Renly, Queen Margaery and Lord Westerlands had hoped would be a quick and near bloodless victory, the country had been plunged into a conflict that threatened to rival even that of Robert’s Rebellion.

Lured south with the promise of their princesses taking their place in the line of succession behind King Stannis’s invisible heirs, and the return of choice lands within the Riverlands, the North came out in full force in support of King Stannis. And instead of lending their armies to King Renly’s cause as promised, the Reach had been dragged from the fray to defend their own lands, for the King of Dorne had emerged from his isolation to take advantage of the chaos and take back lands once stolen from them. A campaign that lost the Tyrells’ sons and countless men. Eventually, Queen Margaery had forced Lord Westerlands into an ultimatum. Either send his son; now proven a capable commander, at the head of reinforcements or she cut the supplies of food which sustained the remains of his army.

Brienne stood pouring over her accounts, the tireless Sir Varys by her side. Lady Genna had joined her niece in Storm’s End and Sir Varys took Brienne’s place as her closest advisor. She had been at the papers for hours, letting her candles burn away to stubs as they laboured through the night. Every time she tried to rest, she kept seeing the flickering of flames behind her eyelids.

She placed her quill into the ink and flexed her fingers, blinking over the papers.

“Is that all?” she asked Sir Varys.

Sir Varys had not a second to reply, for a breathless page came stumbling in. The sleep fogging Brienne’s mind cleared, for only messengers with news of the war were to be admitted straight to her chambers.

“Well?” she demanded, heart in banging against her chest. She crossed her ink stained, bumped fingers behind her skirt. She had reason to hope for good news. The last she had heard, Jaime was acquitting himself well on the Dornish border the Dornish army was on the retreat.

The page dropped to one knee.

“My lady, Lord Dragonstone has prevailed. He marches to King’s Landing with King Renly, Lord Westerlands and Lord Tyrion captive.”

Brienne collapsed to her seat with a thud, the heat of the stuffy solar doing nothing to ease the shivers coursing over her body.

“And?” she pressed. “What of Lady Genna and Lady Stormlands?”

“Taken to Dragonstone under house arrest,” the page said. “Queen Margaery has relinquished the remaining lands occupied by the Dornish, recalled all her soldiers to Highgarden and has declared for Dragonstone.”

“What of Lord Casterly?” Brienne demanded.

“He has been summoned to King’s Landing to answer for his crimes.”

Brienne nodded stiffly, her mouth dry. “I thank you for the news. Have my steward take you to the kitchens and inform him I wish for the household to gathered in the courtyard within the hour.”

“My lady.” The page bowed and backed from the room. Varys waited for the door to shut and the footsteps to die away, before turning to Brienne and placing a plump, soft hand upon her arm.

“Lord Casterly is more intelligent than given credit for,” Sir Varys assured her. “He may very well reach Casterly Rock safely, by which point he will be untouchable.” “He won’t,” Brienne said bitterly. “Not with his family in chains. He will take his place by their side. He wouldn’t be Jaime otherwise.” She gathered the papers and rose briskly. “I will declare for my Uncle Stannis, and on his arrival to King’s Landing I shall sail for the Red Keep immediately to bend the knee before the realm.” She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth, preparing herself for Varys’s protests. “That done, I will plead for mercy for Uncle Renly and the Lannisters.” “My lady, that is most unwise. King Stannis will not have forgotten how you denounced him to Robert, and rest assured you will be implicated in Lord Westerlands’ coup.”

“I know that well,” Brienne snapped. “But I cannot remain and do nothing no more than Jaime can flee to Casterly Rock.” She looked balefully at Varys. “I must do something, Sir Varys. I have to _try_.”


	9. Chapter 9

The glitter and glamour of the court that had prevailed during King Robert’s reign had decayed away to its barest bone, leaving only the fear and treachery. In this interview with her kingly uncle, there would be no affectionate embraces, and Brienne prepared herself to spend the entire interview on bended knee upon the hard floors of the throne room. Instead of the intimacy of his private quarters, King Stannis had received Brienne before the court, who watched like silent vultures as the plain, graceless woman paid homage to the spectre on the throne.

Brienne had foreseen that the interview would be one of discomfort, but she had expected a moment to rest and tidy herself before the audience. Instead she had been escorted to the throne room, sweat stained and dishevelled in her plain blue wool riding habit. There, she found her uncle waiting in silence upon his throne, his entire court assembled. In the crowd there had been more than one sympathetic face, but none that would speak a word in her defence. After all, many had partaken in King Renly’s campaign and were only spared out of necessity, for had King Stannis executed all that had fought against him he would have found himself without a council or a court.

Before her entry, Brienne had been informed that the number of bows required had been increased to seven, which she performed with gratitude for they delayed her approach to her glowering uncle.

“You expect me to believe that you had no part in my brother’s ploy?” King Stannis asked.

Head modestly bent; Brienne peered up through her eyelashes. Her uncle was sat amidst the blades of Aegon the Conqueror’s enemies, in the dim candlelight his dull velvet doublet was at one with the ancient steel.

“I was left entirely in the dark of their intentions, your Grace,” Brienne said truthfully.

“And you never leant your support to this rebel cause?” Stannis persisted.

“No, your Grace. All my energy and resources has been sent providing care to those who fled from the war and flocked to my home,” Brienne said earnestly.

“You speak such pretty words, but I know well you are no friend of mine.” Stannis leant forward, and from even the ground she could hear the grinding of his teeth. “All too well I remember how you thought to intrude upon my doings and poison my brother against me.”

“The girl is clearly false, my lord!” Queen Selyse said shrilly. “She has proven herself to be your enemy.”

Brienne’s mouth went and she felt her knees waver beneath her bulk. Eyes steadfast on the ground, she swallowed and tensed her muscles to keep from toppling forward.

“I reported a violation of the king’s law as justice and my conscience dictated to me,” Brienne insisted.

“Your Grace,” Sir Davos said softly, “A more dishonest heart would have resorted to blackmail, or else would have revealed their information anonymously. That she instead openly informed the king and never shied from admitting to her actions speaks of one too lawful and honourable to commit such vile acts of treason.”

Brienne’s heart filled with gratitude for the knight and his ability to twist her words into a worthy defence. She knew little of the man, but that he was humbly born and had gained favour in his service during Robert’s Rebellion. And yet he seemed destined to prove her champion. Stannis did not look at his knight, but still he jerked his head in acknowledgement.

“And my brother and Tywin Lannister told you nothing of their treason?”

It seemed to Brienne she had already been asked this question. She wondered if her uncle had hoped that repeated questioning and the ache in her knees would cause her to crumble and spew out a spawn of treasons.

“Lord Westerlands never thought much of my wisdom, your Grace,” Brienne admitted, “And saw little reason to keep me apprised of his doings.”

“And my brother?”

“Nothing, your Grace,” Brienne whispered.

“Your Grace, considering your brother and Tywin Lannister’s aims were to end your reforms, it would have been more practical to keep Lady Tarth untainted by their treason and safe from prosecution.” King Stannis looked at Sir Davos through narrowed eyes, the release of his gaze causing Brienne to suck in air as though there had been a vice around her lungs.

“How so?” King Stannis asked.

“She was, until recently, your heir. And her faith is of the Seven,” Sir Davos said simply.

Brienne was thankful for Sir Davos’s defence, but the implication of the good knight’s words left her wondering if he was only delaying the moment her uncle took off her head.

“That is true,” Stannis conceded. He turned back to Brienne and leaned forward an inch. Brienne tensed her muscles, fighting all her instincts not to recoil away from him. “Did you hear Sir Davos’s words Niece?”

Brienne blinked in confusion. “I did, your Grace.” “And you understand you are no longer my heir?” he pressed, a tinge of triumph in his voice.

“I do, your Grace. I suppose Queen Sansa and Princess Arya have taken their place before me,” Brienne answered. She allowed herself a glimpse of the king, who watched her as though he were waiting for an outpouring of grief or anger on her part.

“In return for the North’s aid, I am in progress of having them reinstated in the line of succession,” Stannis confirmed after it became clear none would be forthcoming.

“Until I give the king a son,” Queen Selyse added swiftly. “Be sure, Lady Tarth, the throne will never be yours.”

There was silence. Her uncle seemed to be waiting for her to respond but she knew not what to say. In truth, she was relieved. In her black silk gown, Queen Selyse gloated above like a vulture. When she had first been acknowledged as a prospective heir, it was behind two young, fertile men. These doings had edged her dangerously close to the throne and its burdens, for King Stannis’s marriage to his queen had proved barren in both heart and children. And her Uncle Renly, Seven bless him, was not likely to live long.

“I will gladly accept any decision you make for the good of the realm,” Brienne said humbly.

“Her words are sweet, but it is well known the sweetest tongue spins the foulest of lies. I dread to think of the treasons that will be hatched in her name. Your Grace, I beg you not be deceived. This girl is destined to be your enemy!” Queen Selyse declared, lowering her voice in foreboding.

Even King Stannis rolled his eyes.

Brienne steadily raised her gaze and looked Stannis in the eye. “I have no intention of committing any treason, your Grace. Nor do I sweeten my tongue in an attempt to deceive you.” She could feel the tremors in her wavering voice but overcame them by speaking all the louder. “My intentions in coming here are simple. To pay homage to my king and plead mercy for my uncle and the Lannisters.”

A ripple spread throughout throne room. In a bid for support, Brienne met briefly with Sir Davos’s eyes, who looked upon her with kindly pity.

Stannis sucked in air, his face red and livid. “_You_…” he near gasped in anger, “You would seek mercy for these traitors? For the man who brought this realm to destruction to displace his rightful for king. For the man who sought to murder his brother?”

“I accept that the Duke of Westerlands must die,” Brienne admitted. “But his sister and children are guilty only of obeying the head of their family, as you yourself did when you rose against Aerys under King Robert’s command.”

“You compare _me _to these traitors?” Stannis thundered, spittle flying form his mouth.

Brienne could feel her heart drop to her stomach and curdle, but still she looked him in the eye. “I only ask for mercy,” she repeated.

“And my brother, what of him? Do you deny his treason?”

“No,” Brienne said in a quiet voice. “I merely beg you to remember that for all his sins, he is our kin.”

“His Grace’s brother certainly didn’t remember when he led an army against his brother,” Queen Selyse hissed.

Brienne remained silent, her eyes fixed on Stannis’s face, pleading. Praying.

“Your pleas for mercy for my brother are unneeded,” Stannis said at last, giving Brienne only a moment of bliss before continuing. “I have resolved to spare him from the flames and give him the mercy of the axe. Tywin Lannister has not been so fortunate.”

For all that Brienne could feel her heart splintering, she held back the vomit in her mouth and proceeded on.

“And Lord Casterly and Lord Tyrion?” she asked desperately, her composure deserting her in her fear for her childhood friend.

“Cease calling them ‘lord’. From now on you will not address them as such, they have been stripped of their lands and titles as befits traitor’s blood,” Stannis snapped.

_‘But will they live?’_ Brienne thought frantically. _‘Will you condemn Jaime and his little brother? Don’t let it be the flames. Don’t let it be the axe. Oh, merciful Mother, spare Jaime the flames!’_

“As to their fates,” Stannis said at length, “On that, I am undecided.”


	10. Chapter 10

“Lady Tarth,” Joy announced nervously, “Sir Davos is without. He begs an audience.”

Brienne nodded for him to be admitted, her head aching beneath the weight of her gable hood. Ever since Queen Selyse had taken Queen Margaery’s place, dour fashions with high necklines and thick, stuffy velvets had usurped the floating silks and long, dramatic sleeves adored by the disgraced Dowager Queen. Brienne preferred the comfortable cloth and linen dresses she wore about Evenfall Hall and loathed the feeling of any hood trapping her hair. But the at least she could breathe during Queen Margaery’s day. The heavy fabric favoured by Queen Selyse seemed to trap the heat of every flame and fire.

Brienne plucked at the itching lace of her wrist ruffs and fruitlessly pushed at her hood.

“Sir Davos.” She bobbed an awkward curtsey, gripping her hands to keep them from tugging at her high collar.

“My lady, it was good of you to see me at such short notice.” Sir Davos bowed courteously. “I assure you I will not keep you long.” His gentle smile put Brienne in mind of her long dead father as he stepped softly forward. “Are you prepared for the execution?”

“As much as anyone can be prepared to see a man roast to death,” Brienne said flatly. She had never been fond of Lord Westerlands nor he of her, but she loved Lady Genna and Jaime and loathed to think of their pain. And whatever a man’s crime, condemning a man to be chained to a stake and forced to watch as his body was submerged by flames was a fate that in her heart Brienne could not even condone the Gods ordering, let alone a man. She could not even hope for Tywin to be given the mercy of a bag of gunpowder around his neck. King Stannis had been especially particular on that point.

No shortcuts. 

Sir Davos grimaced.

“I understand that attending this execution is trial enough for you, but I must beg more of you.”

Brienne raised her eyebrows at his blunt manner but was grateful for it and nodded.

“What would you ask of me?”

“You have not yet been seen at any of the Night Fires. Do be assured your absence has been noticed.”

Brienne’s lips curled in disgust. “I am attending this burning, is that not enough. Or must I put on a farce of worshipping the flames as well?” “Every man must put on a farce if they wish to survive this world,” Sir Davos said gently. “Those of royal blood in particular.”

“Has my uncle the king sent you to me?” Brienne demanded.

“He is aware of my presence and has given me leave to ‘drum some sense into you,” Sir Davos quoted. “The content of the meeting shall remain between us, I assure you.” His air of grandfatherly guidance heightened, but Brienne found it less engaging than she did before. For all the kindness in his eyes, he was her uncle’s man through and through.

“My lady, our king’s throne is not yet secure, too many oppose his religious reforms and would leap at the chance to displace him. You must understand that your defiance of his wishes will only give encouragement to these traitors,” Sir Davos told her.

“I have no intention of inciting treason against my uncle,” Brienne protested. “I merely wish to worship according to my conscience.”

“And in doing so openly declare yourself disgusted by your king’s religion,” Sir Davos retorted. “With all due respect my lady, you are a fool if you believe that those of royal blood have the privacy of common men. Every courtier in this land will look upon your actions and think to twist them to his own ends.”

Brienne felt a tremor run down her spine like a dousing of ice water.

“But I am not even his heir! Queen Sansa and Princess Arya-”

“Are Northerners. You must see, the people of this land have no desire to be ruled by foreigners,” Davos interrupted.

Brienne dropped her head like a scolded child. “I see the truth in your words, but _you _must see the evil in our king’s religion. How can you remain so steadfastly loyal to a man who seeks to steal the Gods from the people?”

Sir Davos sighed, his face creasing. “I served beneath King Stannis for many years. He is not the monster you name him. True, these last years he has...he has not always been the man I grew to respect. But that is no reason for me to abandon him now. I find I do more good, for my king and my country, by remaining by his side and trying to provide him good counsel. Even if it means I must bear witness to acts I find distasteful.” He caught Brienne’s gaze and forced her to meet his eyes. “Stannis is not unreasonable. He has decided to spare Jaime and Tyrion Lannister their lives.”

Brienne’s heart jumped against her chest and all air momentarily left her. She absentmindedly wiped her cheek, only to find she had started to weep.

“He will let Jaime live?” she whispered.

Sir Davos smiled. “He will,” he assured her. “Lannister has proved himself a skilled soldier and such men are always in demand. With his family under his Grace’s protection, King Stanns feels he can be sure of his loyalty.”

Brienne lurched forward and gripped his hand. “Did you have something to do with this?” she demanded.

“Aye, I did,” Davos said honestly.

“Then I owe you a debt that I can never repay,” Brienne said hoarsely. The nights since the Lannisters’ defeat had been plagued with flickering images of Jaime as she had best known him, young and laughing and full of life, being bound to the stake.

“You know what you can do to repay that debt, my Lady.” Sir Davos bowed as he moved to exit her chambers. “I will look for you at the next night fire.”


	11. Chapter 11

Brienne could never fail to be thankful for a sight of Jaime. Wherever the place, his presence gladdened her heart. On seeing him flanked by hulking guards dressed in black, yellow and red, her heart soared for second before plummeting. Had her uncle changed his mind? Was Jaime to be sentenced to the flames after all?

But no. It seemed Jaime Lannister was only to watch as his father burned, a clear message as to what would happen to his family should he betray his king once more.

It could do them little good, but still Brienne sought to catch his eyes. When she did, she was lost as to what to do with them. Neither smiles nor tears seemed sufficient. Instead she jerked out her hand and flexed her fingers open in a fool’s gesture, as though in opening her fist her good intentions would be carried to Jaime by the sea breeze.

She then took her place with the Royal Court, the hem of her skirts dragging through the sand. In the moments before Tywin Lannister’s screams began to sing with the crackle of flames, Brienne closed her eyes and allowed herself to believe they were back on Tarth.

~Winterfell-Autumn~

Ned was resting his head upon her swollen belly, listening to the kicks of the little one. Their child, so full of promise and hopes, swam within. On the floor, young Sansa played with her dolls. Catelyn ran her fingers through Ned’s coarse dark hair, relishing in the warmth of his skin against her own. She opened her eyes to see his kind, smiling face looking down at her.

But the grey eyes hovering above were not her Ned’s. They were that of a young girl’s, rimmed in red and wide as a doe.

Arya.

Not her husband, who had died so many years before. Not Sansa, practically banished to the Vale. And not the son whom Catelyn had so desperately wanted to give Ned. How many nights had Catelyn prayed to give Ned a son of her own? But the Gods did not listen, and the only son King Ned was to be blessed with was the bastard Jon Snow, the solemn faced boy supposedly born to Ned whilst he escorted his visiting sister on her progress around the North.

Catelyn had to frown and take a moment to gather her memories. The cancer growing in her stomach had taunted her with crippling pains, which the physician had cured through heavy doses of milk of the poppy that left the days melting together.

She tucked a lock of hair behind Arya’s ear, noticing the tips were damp. The dear girl must have washed before coming to her, her devoted, loyal daughter. Ever since she was a babe Arya had grown aware that it was her duty to rule the North in her sister’s name whilst Sansa cemented their alliance with the Vale. She had born all the weight of the crown with none of the glory attached.

“Out riding?” Catelyn guessed, stroking Arya’s head.

Arya nodded, holding Catelyn’s spare hand in her own.

“Did the council speak of my decision?” Catelyn asked. Even with her health fragmenting like paper in a puddle, Catelyn did not relieve herself of her duties to her land. For all that the drugs fogged her mind, the answer to the ultimatum put before her by King Stannis had been clear as day, even as her heart broke to make it.

“They did,” Arya told her. “And they agreed it was for the best.” “And you?” Catelyn forced herself to sit. “What of you?” Arya shifted in her seat and bit her lip like a little girl, sending a wave of fondness running through Catelyn.

“I think it was right also,” Arya admitted. “I don’t like Sansa being separated from us, but King Stannis’s demands were too high.”

Catelyn nodded in agreement, disappointed despite herself. How she would have loved to have been told she was wrong. That Sansa’s place in the succession was worth the burning of the God’s Woods and razing of the Septs in the North, as were the terms of King Stannis’s newest demands. To be told that she should follow her heart and bring her eldest home. With Sansa once more heir to the South’s throne, no more need they bow to proud King Jon’s demands in return for the promised support of one day reclaiming the Riverlands. Ancient and dignified, the Arryns had demanded that Sansa be raised in the Vale if she were to one day be its future queen, a condition Catelyn only agreed to in the hopes of taking back what was the North’s.

And now, another choice had been offered, only to snatched away once more.

Catelyn squeezed Arya’s hand and coaxed her daughter to lay beside her, holding her as close as she did when she was a babe. Holding back tears, she thanked the Old Gods and the New that they had left her this daughter. For she was unlikely to ever again see the other.

~

“The North has refused my commands. They insist on worshipping their false Gods,” Stannis spat.

Davos stood sweltering inside his king’s solar, the windows barred against the light breeze and the fireplace piled high. When Stannis had summoned him in the middle of the night, Davos knew the news could be nothing but ill.

“The Starks are struck from the line once more?” Davos asked.

From across his desk, Stannis held out his hand and snapped his fingers. “Pass me the document on the top,” he ordered.

Davos produced the desired document, and as Stannis was wont to do when something displeased him, he threw it into the fire.

Watching the parchment shrivel, blacken and crumble, Davos stepped forward tentatively. “And I take it Lady Brienne is to be named your heir once more? At least until the time comes for you to have your own child.”

Stannis gave a harsh, bitter laugh. “Ah yes, my niece. My unnatural, disobedient niece who attends each Night Fire with so disgusted a look on her face as though she is sickened to the core. Don’t doubt for a moment Sir Davos, that at this very moment my loyal subjects wish for nothing more than to put that foolish girl on my throne. They will see me dead and my kingdom returned to heresy once more!” He smashed his fist against his desk, upsetting ink all over the parchment. “I will not let that happen.”

“Perhaps it would be best for Lady Tarth to return to Evenfall Hall, far from the machinations of the court,” Sir Davos suggested hopefully.

Stannis raised an incredulous eyebrow. “And leave her free to plot and scheme to her heart’s content?” he barked. He stood and crossed the room to face Davos. “You will escort Lady Tarth to Dragonstone under armed guard and see that she remains there.”

Davos blanched. Since King Stannis’s assent to power, Dragonstone had become little more than a prison. All who had conspired against Stannis had been sent there and rotted on the dreary island still, apart from the poor souls already given to the flames.

“Will your council approve, your Grace?” Davos asked doubtfully, “Lady Tarth has not been implicated in any treason and-”

“And they will have to approve. On this matter I will take no risks,” Stannis snapped.

“Very well your Grace,” Davos said reluctantly. “On the morrow I will-“

“Not on the morrow,” Stannis interrupted. “Now. I want her locked away before anyone else has a chance to hear of this. I certainly do not wish for fools to go wave off her ship and make a martyr of her.”

Sir Davos said nothing. Instead he bowed and made to leave.

“And one more thing Sir Davos,” Stannis added. “Just because the Lannisters and the Marchioness will be sharing the same castle, it does not mean they are to meet with each other. They shall be kept apart.”


	12. Chapter 12

“It’s cheerier than it looks.”

Brienne stared doubtfully at the grim black walls of Dragonstone, the island’s lifeless grey sky and waters a cruel parody of her beloved home. Would she ever see it again?

She huddled into her cape, hastily thrown on before the guards dragged her from her chambers and servants. They had whisked her away in the night in the hopes of keeping her departure discrete, efforts that proved fruitless, for the streets to the harbour quickly grew thick and heavy with well-wishers. Brienne took heart from their support, even if she questioned their love would be her shield from the pyre, or just another faggot thrown on top.

Sir Davos stepped forward, hovering by her side. Protocol dictated he maintained a respectful distance from the young Marchioness, both as her inferior, and her gaoler. But standing there, shivering and so young, Davos could not think of her as a Marchioness and certainly not a traitor. Just a child, standing at the edge of the abyss.

He wrapped his arm around her, heedless of the guards watching, and gave her shoulder a paternal rub.

“It’s frightful cold out here, m’lady. You had best get inside,” he instructed her gently.

Brienne did not step forward, her eyes transfixed with vacant horror at the looming fortress.

“If I go in, will I ever come out again?” she whispered, burying her frozen fingers in the sable lining of her cloak.

She was too shrewd to be fobbed off with a sweet meaning lie, but there was one assurance Davos could give her.

“If I have something to say about it, you will.”

~

The chambers appointed were comfortable enough, buried deep within the belly of the castle, where none could touch her. The tapestries on the wall were faded with age, but the furs on her bed gloriously thick.

“I shall have the maids bring up some clean clothes and food for you, and maybe some mulled wine to chase the cold away,” Davos offered her.

Brienne nodded silently, grateful for his calming presence.

“Will the maids remain in my chambers, Sir Davos?” she asked.

“Two of them will, the rest will split their time between you and the Lannisters.”

Warmth flooded Brienne’s veins at the reminder she shared the same walls as Jaime, and already the poky rooms shifted into something more comfortable and homely.

“May I see them?” she begged, her gut aching for the sight of Jaime’s smile, his sharp tongue and soft eyes.

Davos looked over his shoulder, checking the thick door was firmly shut. He squeezed Brienne’s hands and raised an eyebrow.

“Have some rest, eat, and I will see you shortly,” he promised.

He returned at the break of dawn, informing his guards he was taking her for a walk along the ramparts. The wily old knight led her to the servants’ passageways, through the dark unlit corridors, until they came to small wooden door. Sir Davos wrapped on the door with his maimed knuckles.

“Enter!” a shrill voice trilled, and with a twinkle in his eye, he let Brienne through.

“Brienne!” Jaime cried, jumping to his feet. He strode towards her, and like a landlubber long lost at sea, Brienne stumbled into his arms. His warm grip folded her into his chest, and he thankfully buried his head into the crook of her neck.

“Even though I dread to think of the danger you are in if you are here, I cannot help but be thankful to have you standing before me,” he told her, eyes crinkling.

Brienne looked at her old friend. He was thinner than she had known him, muscled bulging from his wiry arms. His gold hair prematurely grey, and lines crinkled at the corner of his eyes and mouth as he smiled upon her.

“Well, we are all in danger regardless,” Brienne told him, “it is better to face it together.”

From the fireplace, a somewhat less remarkable since the last time she had seen her Cersei Baratheon snorted like a derisive mare. Still beautiful, with the flames flickering in her simply worn golden locks. Her green woollen dress lacked ornamentation, the finery she had known as a Duke’s daughter and another’s wife stripped from her.

“And our troubles seem a trifle now that you are with us,” she said sweetly, like poison laced silk.

“Ignore her dear,” Lady Genna ordered, shoving Jaime away as she took Brienne into her arms. “You look peaky, sweetling, you had best sit with us by the fire and have something to eat.”

She led Brienne to a small table, and bade her to sit, piling her a plate full of thick bread and meat. And suddenly Brienne was a child again and very glad of it.

“Where is your brother?” Brienne asked as Jaime joined her.

Jaime’s smile slipped off his face, and his skin faded to grey. He nodded at a small poster bed, piled high with furs, beneath which a swamped Tyrion shivered.

“He caught gaol fever when we were first arrested,” Jaime told her, “We were kept in the cells for months, us and father. The climate here does not allow him to recover.”

The small lump beneath the furs stirred and Tyrion; who proved not to be slumbering, smiled with closed eyes. “I have a yearning to take myself to kinder climes. The Southern Isles, perhaps? Did you know they worship a fertility Goddess there with sixteen breasts? That is enough to bring life back to any man.”

“Brother stop tainting the sweet lady’s ears with your vulgar talk and get some rest,” Jaime ordered, moving to tenderly stroke through his brother’s matted hair.

“Aye, I should get some practise at resting, for I shall be doing it plenty in future,” Tyrion jested, his laugh breaking into a dry, rasping cough. Cersei twitched, as though she could see the sickness in the air drifting towards her.

“Hush brother, and stop being so morbid, today is a happy day.” Jaime stayed by his brother’s side, soothing him into an uneasy slumber.

Brienne cast a baleful look at Sir Davos, who regarded the young man mournfully.

“You must help them,” she whispered, as he led her back to her chambers, “Have his grace move the family to a warmer castle.”

Sir Davos squeezed her arm. “I will do what I can, but even I cannot work miracles.” He eyed her doubtfully. “If I have the family moved, you know there is no question of you moving with them.”

Brienne swallowed. “I know,” she admitted, “But if it means saving Lord Tyrion’s life, t’would be a small price.”

As promised, Sir Davos wrote the king letter on letter about Tyrion’s condition. As they waited for reply, he covertly sneaked Brienne into the Lannisters’ rooms so she may take pleasure in Jaime’s company, their mutual pleasure marred only by the prospect of their future parting, or the unthinkable happening.

King Stannis’s assent to the Lannisters’ removal to Haystack Hall came at short notice, and there was no time for goodbyes. If there were, it would have been more than a farewell that Jaime would have given Brienne.

Brienne had been waiting for Davos to take her to see Jaime when he gave her the news of his departure. Grateful as she was on Jaime’s brother behalf, she could not help but notice how small and dank her own chambers looked, now she had little reason to leave.

As Jaime stood on the deck of the ship taking him to the mainland, drinking in the late Autumn skies, he saw another vessel emerge from the mist like a Ghost Ship.

“For where is that ship bound?” he demanded his guard.

“Dragonstone, I would warrant,” the guard guessed, “Sent by the King from the look of the sigil. Perhaps he has finally bent Parliament to his will and the Tarth lass is for the flames after all.”

It took everything Jaime had not to plunge himself into the waters and swim back to shore.


	13. Chapter 13

Brienne was stirred in the middle of the night by the sound of clamouring boots and the hushed, gravelly voices of men. Brienne lay upon her sheets, straining her ears to catch their words. Sir Davos was with them, and there seemed to be a disagreement. There was a barked command, and she heard softer treads fade way and the outer door close as her maids were dismissed. Madly, she kept her eyes squeezed shut as though feigned sleep would keep the monsters at bay.

Jaime used to sneak into her rooms. Used to sneak into her rooms and throw protocol aside and hold her to keep the monsters away from her. The ones under the bed and the ones in the shadows. There were a lot of monsters in the world of orphaned little girls.

Jaime was gone, gone far away.

Barefooted, Brienne crossed her cold stone floor and waited.

If she survived the night, she would remember to be grateful he was far from this place.

“But tonight I think I die,” she murmured as the doors opened with a squeal and a squeak. A delegation of shadowed gentlemen entered. Sir Davos broke away to stand by her side.

“My lady,” a man she recognised as Lord Florent said with a bow. “You are to gather your belongings and depart with us anon. You are to accompany us to court to bear witness to the birth of the child and heir of his Grace, King Stannis.”

“I am free?” Brienne asked in wonderment.

“Not quite your ladyship,” Davos corrected, placing a hand on her arm. “But you to remain here no longer.”

~

Brienne was greeted in King’s Landing by chiming bells and roasting flesh.

Since her imprisonment, the burnings of heretics had increased, and the great Sept of Baelor had been sacked and desecrated. And yet the bells rang. Some brave, foolish soul who had caught wind of her arrival.

Despite the guards’ attempts to discretely return her to court, Brienne was welcomed to King’s Landing with adulation that had her escorts’ sweating as though they were already in the flames.

“She is a prisoner,” Lord Florent grumbled, “And a known friend of heretics. It is not right she should be greeted this way.”

“Lady Tarth has been accused of nothing, and is the king’s niece and heir,” Sir Davos retorted.

“Not for long,” Lord Florent muttered. “Praise be.”

“Thank the Lord of Light he will send his servant to us,” Lord Corliss Penny said, “For even as the king’s health fails the Faith will- “

Lord Florent cuffed him around his head, glowering at him into silence as Brienne could only look on in confusion.

The guards circled Brienne, cutting her off from the press of the crowds, and all Brienne could give the people was small, nervous smiles.

“Take heart,” Sir Davos whispered as he rode beside her. “As long as you bare their goodwill and no crime can be brought against you, Parliament would not dare harming you.”

#

On her arrival at court, Brienne had hastily been escorted to her chambers overlooking Traitor’s Walk, where unknown servants helped her bathe and change. There she waited until evening fall, whereupon she was led by the light of a taper borne by Sir Davos to Stannis’s solar. The kindly old knight tried to look on her with gentle reassurance before he took his leave of her, but even half hid in shadows Brienne could tell from the set of his jaw that Sir Davos misliked the news awaiting Brienne.

The sight of the king caused Brienne to start. Always a sallow man, his skin was positively jaundiced, stretched tight across his hollow cheeks and gaunt bones, more skull than man in the dim shadows. His fingers were skeletal, shaking from a tremor beyond his control. He was not a well man. But still he held an unwavering power over Brienne and the kingdom, and as long as he held it in his grip, he intended to exercise it till the last.

“I am to wed?” she repeated, knees wavering beneath her upon the stone floor.

“Immediately, without delay,” King Stannis confirmed, the poison of his dislike for Brienne seeping out of his eyes and into the air. “You will bear witness to my son’s birth, as is required of the current heir, and then you will marry a loyal retainer who will take you far from here. He will keep you out of trouble and out of my sight.”

“But.. who do you have in mind?” Brienne demanded. She had given little thought to marriage these past years, for since she was a child, she had only ever expected to wed one possible man, even if those who pushed for the match did so behind the scenes far from Brienne’s gaze.

“Her Grace’s uncle, the Lord Florent has proposed himself,” Stannis said. “He has long been loyal to me and the faith, and he will see to it that you are also. I can rest assured that you will be in hands of one who will not fail to discipline you when necessary.”

Brienne felt the muscles built by years of hunting and archery twitch beneath her gown and thought of the portly old man the king wished to tame her with, and nearly laughed.

“I will not wed him,” she said, sternly.

Stannis’s eyes widened. He had expected pleading, begging. Not this firm, controlled refusal, as though the matter had already been set.

“You are an unnatural, wretched woman!” he thundered. “You will do as I command.”

“I regret that I must gainsay your wishes, your Grace, but I will not marry Lord Florent,” Brienne repeated softly.

“I am your uncle, and your king. It is your duty to wed as I order,” Stannis snapped.

“My lord, the law is clear that neither God nor man may compel a person to wed. As king you may be more than a man, but you are not a god and even they do not hold dominion in this matter. If the Lord of Light himself may not force me into matrimony, a king certainly cannot.” Stannis reeled back and looked upon Brienne in disgusted silence.

“Then you will die for it. Your disobedient, wilful nature proves yourself to be a treacherous wretch, worthy only of the flames.”

Brienne felt her knees tremble beneath her gown, but refused to waver, her eyes set firmly on her uncle’s gaunt face.

“For you to make such threats, your Grace,” Brienne began coolly, “Is most unlawful. Burn me for treason, if you have proof, yet that I am before you now reveals that you do not and could not find it, although I warrant you have tried. The law is clear that no one can be compelled to wed, and in threatening my life you attempt to do just that. A man has a knife held to his throat and told to hand over his purse, he did not give it willingly. He was forced. A woman had a hand around her throat and is told to spread her legs, she is raped. As those acts are an injustice, so is your treatment of me.”

Stannis’s lips disappeared into thin, colourless line. Brienne remained kneeling, her impassive face deceptive of the terror she held within as Stannis looked on her empty blue eyes.

“Get out,” he hissed at last.

Brienne longed to turn and flee, but she courteously rose, curtseyed three times and backed away until she was in the cool stone corridor, whereupon high, incredulous laughter bubbled from her lips.


	14. Chapter 14

Stannis did not execute Brienne, for if his council would have allowed it, he would in all likelihood have done so long before now, but neither did he allow Brienne’s wilfulness to go unpunished. Although allowed freedom of the castle, her steps were constantly dogged by guards who were swapped regularly, so that none were allowed a chance to win her friendship. It was the same for the maids who fed her and dressed her and cleaned her rooms. She could walk in the gardens, but could not hunt, ride, sail or practice her archery.

She was moved to small quarters beneath Lady Tanda Smallwood’s, her bedroom directly situated beneath the odious lady’s kitchens, where it seemed she kept her poor servants shackled to the spit for they were constantly at their work through night and day.

The one freedom allowed to her was that of correspondence; carefully monitored, between herself and her chamberlain, Sir Varys, so that she could oversee how her island fared. Fortunately, the wily Varys had seemingly kept the island running efficiently and her people were beginning to prosper.

In truth, there was only one other man she wished to write to, and within months he was returned to her.

A light had been lost from Jaime’s eyes, since last she saw him. His brother may have recovered, and his freedom may have been returned to him, but the ever-present boyishness of his laugh and smile had been stripped from him.

The disquiet ever simmering in the Riverlands had escalated into a full-on uprising ever since Stannis had doubled down on the burnings and the destructions of the Septs, spreading his will to the furthest reach of the kingdom. Queen Selyse’s pregnancy had not progressed as it ought, the slight swelling of her stomach failing to grow as it ought. Many had put it down to the queen’s; never the heartiest of women, constant fasting. A desperate bid to win favour from the Lord of Light. But as the moons passed, still her stomach swelled but little.

And if Queen Selyse had hoped to bring her child into the world by purging herself of sin, then King Stannis thought to do likewise by purging the realm of heresy.

Jaime had been amongst the knights sent to quell the rebels, his previous acquittal in battle having earned him the chance to win his freedom on the tip of a blade.

He returned to court, he and his family, disgraced and penniless but free. The day he arrived; Brienne forwent propriety to corner fling her arms around him. The tightness with which Jaime clung back nearly robbed her of her breath. It was not that of two friends long parted, but of a man who was but a gentle breeze away from being blown off the earth.

“You should have seen it,” he muttered bitterly, eyes clouding from the memory. “The people there are broken. The land has long known unrest and have struggled much these past years, all they had was their faith and it has been ripped from them. And my men, the armies brought to bring order and peace, took their fair share of pickings from the land and women.”

“Oh Jaime,” Brienne murmured, running her hand up and down her back in a bid to offer him comfort.”

Jaime looked over his shoulder, to see if there were any ears lingering in the bushes and flower shrubs littering the garden in which they had met.

“There was one pair, two young boys. Barely even men, but they were all their families had. A blacksmith and a farrier. They had been caught hiding religious idolatry, a statue of the Maiden and the Mother which they had carried from the Sept, a copy of the Seven-Pointed Star, and a branch from a Weirwood tree; they did not follow the Old Gods but still they thought to preserve it. I was meant to hang them.”

“Meant to?” Brienne repeated, lowering her voice carefully. “You mean you did not?”

“I took two lads I saw assaulting a camp follower, put hoods on them and hanged them in their place,” Jaime explained.

“Well then you saved them,” Brienne said, trying to hearten him.

“Two out of thousands,” Jaime pointed out. “It was not enough; it will never be enough.”

He crumpled and all Brienne could firmly fold him into her grasp, as though in wrapping her thick arms around him she could shield him from his own memories.

“I hate this,” Brienne spat. “I hate this waiting and the helplessness and relying on the goodwill of bad men to bring justice to this land.”

“When you are queen, you will be able to change it.”

“If I am queen,” Brienne pointed out. “Queen Selyse is still with child”.

“A child that refuses to grow,” Jaime corrected. “And the king, the king is not well. Have you not seen him? All we must do is wait.”

“But while we wait, how many are suffering? And unlike you, I have done nothing to help them. And I have wealth, I have money, but the king would never permit me sending the Riverlanders aide lest I be swaying supporters to ‘my cause’ and insight them to rebellion.”

“Is there nought you can do?” Jaime asked. “Surely there is a way?”

“The king despises me all the more for refusing to wed. He wishes I join myself with Lord Florent, but I will not have him Lord of Tarth, and certainly not Lord of the Realm should I ever inherit,” Brienne sighed. “He desires I wed so much, I have heard talk he had Lady Smallwood’s servants be given extra pots and pans just so they can bang them together through the night and keep me from my sleep.”

“He truly wants you wed so greatly?” Jaime probed.

“Desperately so, so much that I would consider marrying purely because he would be grateful enough to send aide to the Riverlands, if I was not truly loathe to give that odious man any power when I inherit. Even if he would not make a dire king, I will need to keep my hand open to win allies, for even the promise of my hand would be enough…. enough…” Brienne trailed off, her eyes widening.


	15. Chapter 15

Stannis’ health was falling fast, the deterioration within writ upon his gaunt, hollow face. If the smell of charred flesh was still not so pungent in the air, Brienne may have felt sorry for him.

“My heir,” he said on admitting her to his chambers, his voice dripping with scorn. “After all these years of service for this country, after all my attempts to purge it of sin and vice, this is who I leave in my place to continue my work.”

“Your child, your Grace-” Brienne reminded him.

“My child who will never come!” Stannis spat. “Don’t play me for a fool girl, do you think this is the first time my wife has deceived herself into believing herself with child? I believed it myself, the first time. I believed it the second third and fourth! This time I would have given orders she be locked away and silenced if I had known about her delusions before she made the announcement before the whole court.”

“I pray this time may prove more fruitful for you, your Grace,” Brienne said obediently.

“Don’t lie to me, you unnatural wretch!” he snapped. “All you pray for is the day I die, and you can return this country to heresy. Well, it will never come. I will set this country ablaze before it falls into your aberrant hands.”

Brienne resisted the urge to tell him he was doing a good job of that already, and instead cut straight to the point of her visit.

She had considered twisting her words, playing the reformed damsel in the hope of gaining favour, but Brienne was a poor schemer, and Stannis would have soon seen through her lies.

“I am most concerned about the Riverlands, your Grace,” Brienne said succinctly.

“What do you care about them?” he demanded. “Oh, let me guess? That Lannister boy came to you, singing a tale of woe and tyranny. They were traitors and dealt with as treachery demands.”

“I wish simply to use my own wealth to send aide for those whose livelihoods have been threatened by the wars,” Brienne said honestly. “In return for your permission to do so, I will assent to your request I marry Lord Florent.”

Stannis’s eyes flared in triumph. “Lord Florent is a strong man, and a man of faith. He will see to it you learn a proper womanly obedience and will take care of this country in my absence. Very well, I will grant your request.”

#

Things developed swiftly after that. Stannis allowed Brienne to send gold and food, but only through his agents so that any chance of conspiracy could be nipped in the bud. Then it was a matter of procrastination. First, Brienne refused to wed Lord Florent until she was sure her wealth was being put to good use, then she insisted on waiting until her home’s treasury was refilled after sending so many resources north, refusing to think of matters of marriage until her home was stable. Then she complained of ‘female ailments’, insisting she could not wed a man when she felt so deeply in her soul that she would never bear him children.

“I am so unnatural a woman, surely we must not take it for granted that I am capable of fulfilling a woman’s most sacred duty.”

She kept Lord Florent waiting as the wisest Maesters and most experienced midwives of the country came to examine her and study her monthly courses. An infuriating and humiliating experience, yet mercifully a lengthy one.

Then, Queen Selyse returned from her confinement with no child. The official story was that of another miscarriage, used to preserve the dignity of a woman so desperate for a child that she had near fooled her body into believing she carried one. A thin lie, but one that gave Brienne months of mourning to put off the marriage, for how could she wed when the queen had _just_ miscarried?

With no hope of a child, no hope of leaving a legacy and preserve the faith he had introduced to the Realm, Stannis’s health further began to fail. Davos privately informed Brienne that the Maester had given Stannis but months at best; weeks were more probable, and Lord Florent, realising that he would never be Marquess of Tarth or King of Westeros, left the Capital, too aware that followers of his faith would not be welcome once the king had passed.

Brienne, her steps no longer tailed by a broken king who had given up hope, returned to Tarth before it occurred to him to seize one last chance to serve his Lord and rid the world of the girl certain to reverse all his reforms.

By the time Brienne departed for Tarth with her household, it was clear that King Stannis had little time left. She had set sail well aware that within days of docking she would be boarding once more, this time to arrive in King’s Landing a queen. But for now, with Stannis more a living corpse than tyrant, Brienne was willing to grasp at the first few days of peace she had truly known in months, and the last she was like to know in a lifetime.

Jaime stood beside her, watching the faint outline of Tarth emerge against the setting sun. Brienne could feel his breath hitch at what had been their childhood home and loved him for it.

“It will always be close at hand,” Jaime murmured.

“I know,” Brienne sighed. “But it will not be my home as it once was, just a respite from my real life.”

“Who is to dictate what parts of your life is real and which is not?” Jaime demanded. “Why does the world insist that freedom and joy and peace is nearly an interim for duty and sacrifice grief. Why can the latter not be what is endured so we may truly savour the former?”

Jaime ran his hand down Brienne’s back, and despite her heavy layers, she trembled.

“Jaime,” she whispered. “There is a matter I must address with you.”

Jaime moved in closet, his head resting against Brienne’s own. He silently nodded to encourage her to continue.

“When I become queen,” Brienne began with a swallow, “I must distinguish between who I am as a queen, and who I am as a woman. Brienne the queen is a role I must take on and is the only face I can show the public.

“Brienne the woman may be allowed to exist, but only in private. Her desires and wishes may be fulfilled, but only on the understanding that those desires must be concealed. Regardless of what Brienne the woman wishes, whatever she feels and desires, Brienne the queen cannot show herself to be vulnerable, or biased or partial. She must be willing to listen to all, with no obvious preference for any man.

“I cannot wed. To do so would be to welcome unforeseen conflict. The country would not be ruled by a foreign prince, but the nobles would resent having to kneel to a man they have long considered equal, or even inferior. And if am to be unwed, I must be apart from the world. I must be virtuous, pure and chaste.”

“But never caught,” Jaime muttered, wrapping his arms round her waist and gripping her tight. “I understand. It is not how I would have things, but I have no desire to be king, only to be by your side. To support you and join you in rebuilding this country. I would serve Brienne the queen and live with Brienne the woman.”

He pressed his lips to hers, Brienne curling her fingers into Jaime’s prematurely greying gold hair.

“If we were to wed, our love would be for the kingdom,” Jaime said softly. “If we were to live as king and queen. But between merely man and woman, it can be entirely our own.”

“We don’t have to be completely hidden,” Brienne added, nestling into Jaime’s arms. “Those we trust, your brother and Sir Davos and your aunt, we need not conceal ourselves from them. But the two lives must be distinct.”

“As long as I can be in a part of both them,” Jaime said fervently. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “For I know the women whose lives they are to both be remarkable, and it will be a privilege to be by your side as you lead them.”


End file.
